Page 66 of Fool's Gold

My dates with Jacob are a respite, but those are few and far between as weeks shift into months.

Almost like the thought of Jacob conjures the devil instead, Marcus crowds me in the corner of the set. Feet separate us, and his scent and presence smother me.

“How are you feeling?” he mutters loudly enough for me to hear.

I blink, my heart fluttering in my throat. “I’m fine.”

We’re as cordial as strangers, even when I remember how he tastes. He’s stopped pushing me away, but he’s distant, formal. These interactions are the actual worst.

“I know the schedule is harsh, but we wrap today,” he continues in the business-as-usual tone I’ve come to expect. Today he’s traded his usual black-on-black suit for a casual linen blazer and the most professional pair of jeans I’ve ever seen. “Then it’s just a couple more weeks. A few parties, a few red carpets, and you’ll be free to take on your next project.”

“Yes.”

What else is there to say? The words are all there, piling up on one another, but none of them make it out.

I tug at the shirt, a tight little tank top designed with Alicia in mind and not me.

My phone buzzes from my shorts pocket, and I jump, the vibration even louder than normal. Marcus hears, too, and he narrows his dark eyes into threatening slits.

“You stow your phone in your trailer,” he warns. “I don’t want to see you bring it to set again. It’s a distraction.”

“The cell won’t be a problem.” My nose automatically lifts in the air, and I have to force it downward inch by inch.

Marcus doesn’t ask who’s texting me, and there’s no way in hell I’m supplying the information.

We both know who it is. Even if he’s never seen the texts, he suspects, at least according to the social media threads I’ve been tagged in multiple times. Marcus Ortega, my manager, has given his blessing to the relationship between me and Jacob, although he requests that the press respect my privacy.

How about he respects me by not endorsing the lies? There’s no relationship. A friendship, sure, but nothing more. Jacob keeps texting me, and I’m trying to stay open to things with him, but—

“Well?” Marcus arches a black eyebrow into his hairline.

“I’m going, I’m going.” I hustle off the set toward my trailer.

“Be back in two minutes. No more,” Marcus calls after me.

The devil take me because even with all this new shit crashing down on my head, I only want Marcus. I’ll happily burn in those flames for another night with him because I didn’t realize the last one would be the last.

Swallowing hard, I force the thoughts down into the black pit inside me, hoping I’ll be able to convince myself the opposite is true. I want Jacob. Not rekindling.

I hustle out of the darkness of the studio into the blinding light of day with the countdown trailing me. With shaking fingers, I pry the phone from my ludicrously tight shorts, my high heels clicking away.

I want to see you again. Are you free tomorrow night for dinner?

Jacob accompanies the text with a winking emoji. I like to think the ghost of the smile on my face is because I’m actually interested in having dinner with Jacob. He’s normal. With him, I’m normal again, not this twisted freak who wants the pain of the wrong man.

“I have a feeling our shoot today is going to be a breeze,” Belinda says the moment I step back inside the soundstage. “The focus here will be less on physical chemistry and more on the emotionality of the dialogue.” She rubs her hands together in anticipation.

The reminder is for me as I bounce from side to side on the balls of my feet. The climax of Alicia and Mr. Patterson’s interactions before things go downhill. I’ve been running the lines at home for days leading up to this moment.

I’ll be fine. The others don’t know it, but I do.

It’s going to be easy to channel the heartbreak of the decline and easier to channel the fear. Tears already sting my eyes, ready to fall free at the right moment. I slick my tongue over my dry lips, no matter how many layers of gloss the makeup crew has painted on.

“Empire.” Hearing my name on his lips is torturous. “Remember to build the inflection toward the middle of the argument.”

I square off across from Greg and ignore Marcus. “Yeah, I got it, thanks.”

Every day is the same.

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